


Blunt 2

by Doxx



Series: Blunt [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Dom/sub, Gags, M/M, Master/Slave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 18:46:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3299903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doxx/pseuds/Doxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke and Fenris experiment with a switch in roles.  Hawke, being his usual blunt and tactless self, makes things very tricky till Fenris comes up with a crafty solution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blunt 2

Hawke did not have to say anything for Fenris to understand what he needed tonight, and that was probably just as well. Even though they had talked about the idea of Hawke assuming a more subservient role, Hawke himself would always say something so un-slave-like it was impossible for Fenris to continue with the game.

The first time, Hawke had stood strong, and when Fenris had tried to push him to the bed, had barely budged and kept both feet solidly planted to the ground. He had looked at Fenris, and then realised that the elf would not use full force on him for fear of causing damage. "Oh!" he had said, "Was I supposed to fall?" He then tipped himself onto the bed, landing like a sack of potatoes, and Fenris had found the whole situation too ludicrous and could not go on.

Then it was the comment of how odd it must be for an elf to be in charge. Fenris had stiffened, and knew his anger would mar any attempt to take the care required to work such a complicated role play scenario. Hawke had been disappointed, and the next day presented Fenris with a bottle of expensive wine he knew Varric would have been pivotal in providing the lumbering champion. 

Not to mention the time Hawke asked for clarification when Fenris had told him to strip, and go and wait for him on the bed. "You mean your bed? Because we normally use mine, its much nicer...."

Though he was not one to give up easily, Fenris was struggling to keep his temper when it came to Hawke, and the man's seemingly unending stream of out-of-place, insensitive, or down-right offensive, remarks. He cared very much for the champion of Kirkwall, and had long since accepted that Hawke never meant to cause him to bristle, or place his head into his hands. Still, if there was a word or phrase that would make matters worse, you could almost count upon Hawke to vocalise it.

Fenris had been there when Hawke had commented that most people thought Meredith was insane... To Meredith herself. The knight-commander had been close to livid, and only when Varric had kicked Hawke in the shin (a now standard gesture between the companions for the champion to not utter another word while someone sorted out his most recent mess) and sweetly asked if Meredith had not summoned them for something in particular, did she stop looking as if she was about to throw her helmet at Hawke. She had been almost too glad to send them out hunting suspected blood mages, and Fenris could not help but overhear her muttered comment of being only too happy to have Hawke try and talk to them first.

Then, before Varric could get Hawke to the hanged man and give him a proper berating for his idiotic comment, Orsino had taken them aside. Before Hawke had even stepped over the threshold, both Varric and Fenris had given him a pointed tap against his shin. Hawke had looked hurt, but said nothing.... and continued to say nothing when Orsino asked if Hawke shared Meredith's hatred of mages, giving the solid impression that the champion would not even speak with a magic user. Rather than the dangerous purple of Meredith, the high enchanter had gone an ashen shade of pale, and bowed his head meekly, too used to being refused audience of hearing because of his magic, or his ears. They had been shown the door, and Varric, at a compete loss, had thrown his stubby hands in the air and told Fenris he was going to the hanged man, and would emerge later on in the week.

On the way back, Hawke had confessed his despair that he knew nothing of mages, or templars, let alone how to solve their problems. That even when he said nothing, it seemed to upset those he was trying so hard to help. That noone seemed satisfied with a man who would happily fight his way through hoards of undead, or dragonlings, but set him against nobles and knight commanders and high enchanters, where he could not use his sword to secure victory. They wondered why their champion failed and flailed in such situations, and though Varric did his best to spin the tale to show Hawke in a more positive light, Hawke had started to become something of a joke, his hopelessness with diplomatic grace cause for great mirth throughout the taverns and pubs of Kirkwall.

He was not a stupid man, by any means, Fenris knew that. Hawke simply had no training in the delicate dance of politics, after all, it was a poor warrior who stopped to converse in the middle of a battle. He was too honest, and tended to say the first thing that came into his head. In a fight, to act on impulse was most often rewarded by not dying, and Hawke seemed unable to break the habit that had saved his life on many an occasion.

The champion was also not permitted to simply stay quiet either, much to Varric's annoyance. It would be much easier to paint Hawke as the bold and brave hero, if he didn't happen to insult every single person he came across. The mages hated him, because he used the words abomination and curse and magic in the same breath, when he was just trying to establish the danger of the situation and if any of the mage were likely to turn demonic in the next breath. The templar could not stand him, because even though sincere, his compliments of their uniform (complete with material fashioned like a skirt) sounded like he was making a mockery of them. Varric had banned him from ever travelling to Orzammar, for fear Hawke would not return, and even the Dalish, xenophobic to all outsiders, seemed to have a special place of despise for the man who had come into their camp, and wondered aloud at the lack of civilised toilet facilities. 

The knight commander and high enchanter, were just the latest in a long list of unfortunate mishaps and mistakes, but the sheer volume of those errors had started to erode Hawke's will. A man, even one as strong as Hawke was, could only survive so many misdeeds before he started to blame himself, rather than the unfairness of the expectations of those around him.

Hawke was haunted by a harrowed look now, of someone lost within their own city. Fenris had met his eyes, and decided that, for one night at least, he would help Hawke set aside the mantle of champion and all the weight and responsibility the title embodied. He reached over and took a firm grip of Hawke's wrist, and pulled the captured hand upward. It was a little disturbing to feel the lack of resistance the bigger man offered. He pressed his lips to the crest of knuckles before him, and gave Hawke a confident smile.

"Tonight, I shall be in charge. If you have any objections, speak now."

When Hawke, both eyebrows arched high in surprise, simply nodded his consent, Fenris rewarded him with a gentle bite. The edge of teeth raking over flesh, and hot breath against his skin had the desired effect, and Hawke's mood instantly lifted. He watched as Fenris released the hand, and started towards the Hawke estate, at a pace that gave away Fenris's own impatience to go somewhere private so that they could continue.

Once inside, Hawke seemed ill at ease, unsure of what to do. Fenris had to take a deep breath to ready himself, and reminded himself that Hawke had asked for them to switch roles, the champion taking the more subservient position. They avoided calling it master and slave roleplay, Fenris's past too ingrained for him not to shudder at the thought, even though he took pleasure in kneeling before his lover in nothing but a collar. In fact, due to Hawke's terrible way with words, they avoided discussing it altogether. There was understanding, and that was all that was needed.

"Lock the door." Fenris said, his tone intentionally lowered to an almost threatening rumble. "Then follow me."

He had to turn to hide the small smile at Hawke's haste to obey, and stalked up the stairs. Hawke followed, his own steps a little heavier, and he gripped the ornate railing as if he was afraid of falling. 

When Hawke finally got to his bedroom door, Fenris was rummaging through one of the drawers Hawke stuffed the surplus belts and trinkets no-one else could find use for. He kept himself facing away from the champion, partly to help Hawke get into the right frame of mind, partly because he did not want to continue until he'd found what he was looking for.

By the time he'd untangled the belt from the golden chains of a barely magical pendant, Hawke was shuffling in place, but was bowing his head respectfully. He also had a dagger in hand, simple, and still sharp despite its stay in storage.

"Kneel, and open your mouth."

He cut the belt neatly in two, and rolled the piece of leather around the length of the remaining belt. Using the point of the dagger he worked a fresh hole for the buckle to fasten into, then presented the hand-made gag for Hawke's approval.

"This is not because I think you lack the skill to please me with your speech, but because tonight, the only sounds I want to hear from you are groans of pleasure. If you feel the need to bring things to a halt, slap your hand twice quickly on the floor or against your thigh. Do you understand?"

Hawke nearly answered, but then caught himself, with just a hint of a smirk he gave a very definite nod. 

Fenris wasted no time in placing the roll of leather between Hawke's teeth, and fastening the belt tightly round the back of his head. The belt was thin, only a finger width across, and stained a deep rich brown. It rather nicely matched Hawke's eyes he thought. He tucked the loose end in so it would not dangle and risk the buckle coming loose, and he could see the change in Hawke instantly. The warrior relaxed, his shoulders settling comfortably apart, the tightness in his jaw and forehead ebbing away as he submitted completely to Fenris's will.

The elf was pleased to be able to help Hawke set aside his burdens before he burnt out. However, the sight of the man, on his knees and with leather gagging him, set his own nerves on edge and caused his pulse to race. Hardly the state of mind he'd have preferred for orchestrating a scene such as this. He was tempted to leave Hawke there, in the middle of the floor, till he could regain his composure.

Fenris however, knew too well about cruelty. He had the experience burned into his skin and mind of the creative ways a man could be hurt, humiliated, brought down further than just to his knees. Coupled with the fact he knew _Hawke_ , the intimate understanding of the champion leading him to make some very astute guesses at what would pain him the most, Fenris felt uneasy at the lure of such power. It was like a demon's call, a small part of him wanting to wield his control like a weapon, just because he could. Doing nothing, allowing the room to fill with silence and doubt, would surely try the warrior to his limits, and tonight was not the time for pushing such new boundaries. 

He circled round, and with a firm hand adjusted Hawke's head so his eyes were lowered to the floor, and his chin tucked to a less defiant angle. Hawke took to the corrections in his posture, and did not look up as Fenris came round to the front.

"I ask three things of you this night. First I am in charge, I will not tolerate any question of this. You will follow orders without hesitation, to the best of your abilities."

Hawke's face was tight with concentration as he took in the rules, eyes staring straight ahead. He had no doubt though, that the warrior would have very much liked to have seen Fenris's expression, to gleam some clue as to what the elf might have in store. The thought of things to come made Fenris's smile, as he all but whispered the last line of his rulings; "Lastly, when the time comes, _if_ the time comes, you will wait until I am _satisfied_ before you will be granted permission for your own release."

Teeth curled into a grin around the leather gag, and Fenris raised an eyebrow. He was pleased that Hawke seemed unafraid, but at the same time, it was not the effect he wished to achieve.

"I am glad you seem to find this so very amusing...." His voice was sarcastic, and he turned on his heel and walked away. The confused whine that followed his footsteps, Hawke obviously worrying that he had somehow managed to once again break the mood, softened Fenris's frown of frustration. He dragged a chair room to face the warrior, and sat himself upon it, gracefully unfolding his legs out in front of him and relaxing into the polished wood.

"Stand and strip." he said, trying not to let his voice be too warm, "And make a show of it. Impress me."

Hawke's grin fell away as he got clumsily to his feet, and his every movement was stuttering, and hasty. Buttons seemed to best his fingers, and though he had faced down the fearsome qunari, he struggled with his own armor. He was not graceful, nor sensual, as he wriggled and rushed to remove his clothes.

"Slow yourself." Fenris adopted a tone which suggested advice, rather than criticism. "Treat this as a training exercise, to try and keep all movements steady as your arms shift and bend from your center of balance. You have a striking form, and ought to put it to much better use. Flex for me, and stretch your muscles."

Rather than trying to imitate one of Isabella's exotic dancer friends (that he was sure she only brought to the hanged man to annoy Sebastian), Hawke started to move more easily, as if learning a new sword sweep or defensive block. Strong, and powerful, and entirely more attractive now the armor had been set aside and clear bare skin revealed. He lifted his tunic over his head, but froze as it caught on the gag. There was a jerk of movement, as Hawke working the tunic carefully so that it did not displace the leather belt, and Fenris was pleased that Hawke had chosen to keep the gag.

The trousers were dropped without ceremony, but Hawke stepped from them, and straightened his back, rolling his shoulders as Fenris had advised. He pushed his smalls down, running the flat of one hand down his thigh as he did so. Then, as if suddenly aware that he was naked while Fenris was still fully clothed, he flushed with embarrassment, and stood unsure before the elf.

"Touch yourself."

Fenris heard the gasp, even though it was forced past a thick roll of leather. He crossed his arms as he waited for Hawke to move, or tap twice. When the warrior did neither, but stand, too nervous or self-conscious to carry out the command, Fenris was forced to contemplate how best to give Hawke the nudge he needed to continue.

One would not give a slave encouragement, not when he hesitated like that, but Hawke's eyes sought out Fenris's. Even with his mouth stretched around the gag, Fenris could see the uncertainty bunch his brow into a knot. For a moment, he was undecided as to whether he wanted to calm the man before him.

He was too much aware that Danarius had been a little too accurate when he had addressed Hawke as Fenris's new master. The elf tolerated Hawke's companions, even though he would have shunned their company long ago if left to his choice. He accompanied Hawke on dangerous adventures, against foes he would have much rather left to whatever destruction they would commit as long it was far from him. He told himself he did these things because he cared for Hawke, but sometimes it was hard to drown out the little voice at the back of his mind, Danarius's voice, that questioned if he did not simply _need_ for servitude. That even when free he would seek out orders and be unable to do anything but obey.

The simplest way to fight against such claims would be to take his pleasure at Hawke's expense, and remove that lingering doubt that he had adopted the champion as a substitute. That he could be selfish, rather than bend to whatever Hawke might request, or need. To forsake Hawke's enjoyment in favour of his own would prove to himself simultaneously that he was no longer bound by slavery, but also that he was no better than the magisters he hated. 

That he could be tempted by such dark impulses scared Fenris, so he rose from his chair and walked over, footsteps careful, delicate, as nonthreatening as he could make them. He reached out and made the effort to stroke gently, affectionately against Hawke's cheek. It was out of role, but needed, to reassure both of them.

"You are doing so well... Don't overthink it, just _be_. You are a very handsome man, and I want to watch you pleasure yourself. I want to hear you trying to moan with a gag of leather in your mouth. I want to see you do it because I asked it of you."

His voice had a hard tone, a subtle reminder of who was supposed to be in charge, but Hawke responded well, and gave a small nod. Fenris returned to the chair, but instead of slouching in it, he leant forwards, intently watching the man before him.

By then, Hawke’s chin was glistening with a thin trail of saliva as the gag held his mouth open, and he wiped his hand across the bare chin, before reaching to grasp himself. He glanced up, to meet Fenris's eyes, the elf permitting this, since as soon as Hawke saw the look of lust directed at himself, he started to lose his inhibitions. As he moved his hand shyly around his slowly stiffening length, he gave a low grunt tightening his fingers. Fenris could not help but admire the way his skin started to colour, not the quick flush of embarrassment but the more gradual tint of arousal. 

Slowly, not really minding if Hawke noticed or not, Fenris reached down to slide his own palm over his trousers, feeling the hardness there. He was enjoying the display, almost as much as he enjoyed seeing Hawke being able to take pleasure in the moment, his stance more confident as his hand stroked up and down his erection.

Skin was pulled taunt repeatedly, and the flesh began to engorge, darkening to the low sound of Hawke, the gag hindering any effort to contain the growl and pant of nearing release. His legs trembled with the effort of staying standing, and his body started to stay in time with the repeated slide of his hand. As his pace quickened, Hawke tipped his head back enticingly, his every breath pushed past leather and sounding increasingly hoarse. Fenris had to stop kneading his own hardness, before he lost himself in the rhythm of Hawke’s hand.

"Remember the last rule." he managed to say, voice husky and just a little bit too breathless to be truly commanding. Never-the-less, Hawke gave out an exasperated cry, and let go of himself. He was breathing heavy over the leather, eyes wide and pleading with Fenris for completion, and the elf could not find resolve to deny him.

"On the bed. On your knees." he ground out, getting up with some difficulty from the chair. As Hawke moved to get on the bed, he removed his armor, allowing himself to have the speed he had not granted Hawke. He walked over, letting his footsteps sound to reduce the likelihood of Hawke turning to look to see where he was. Fenris took solace in the fact that he would make a poor master, he showed far too much consideration for the man kneeling on the bed, erection straining between his legs.

Again, he took time to correct Hawke’s position to his liking. He placed a hand between shoulderblades and pushed downwards, setting Hawke’s forearms on the mattress, head lowered but ass raised high. A hand under the stomach pulling up moved his back from curving down towards the bed to a more straight and elegant pose, and when he was finished, Fenris stroked a hand down the line of his spine down to the smooth roundness of his rear.

"Very nice..." it was practically a purr, and Fenris might have been embarrassed at such a statement if Hawke had not sighed softly around the gag. Fenris moved to the side, so that Hawke might see him (as well as bringing him closer to the drawer where he knew the oil was kept).

"Oh? You like to have my approval, do you? I wonder if you would still make such eager little noises if you knew my plans..." Fenris paused, then pulled the oil out, unstopping the bottle and pouring the smooth liquid over his fingers and sliding them together to warm them. He leaned in close, mouth so close to Hawke’s ear he'd felt the vibrations of every word.

"That I am going to slide my fingers inside you.... and wriggle them. Then I will stroke deep inside you till you feel like your legs might give out, and that the gag stops you from _begging_ for my cock."

The leather did not keep the moan that Hawke gave from sounding any less needy, if anything, it added another layer of greed and desire and sheer desperation. Fenris smiled at his achievement, that the great champion of Kirkwall was entirely at his mercy, and loving it.

Fenris danced his fingertips over the pucker of Hawke’s entrance, and made note that next time, he would not permit the wanton tilt of hips against him. For now however, he allowed Hawke to shift from the position, moving his hand to accommodate, not granting more than the slightest of touch upon him.

Frustration, more a heavy exhale than an actual attempt to articulate, rumbled through the leather, and Fenris chuckled to himself. “You forgot your place… I am in charge, and I shall set the pace. And you will bear with it, for however long I wish.”

Hawke’s entire body tensed, if only for a moment, then the warrior set his shoulders back and relaxed, that last piece of resistance and doubt falling from him as he simply submitted.

Fenris rewarded the trust handed to him by firmly rubbing his fingertip in little circles over the rippled ring of muscle, oil warming rapidly with the friction and body heat. He shifted his hand, using the thicker point of his knuckle against Hawke’s entrance, his other hand resting against the small of Hawke’s back, gentle, but solid and warm and feeling every shiver, every stuttering breath. The small sounds of pleasure, of need were coming fast now, each exhalation carrying a fresh muffled cry or moan.

“I love the noises you make, when the gag prevents you from keeping them trapped behind lips. Won’t you please cry out for me…?”

As an oiled digit pushed inside, Hawke did cry out, high pitched and not stopping till the finger was nestled deep within him. Fenris flexed, slowly, carefully, stretching, searching for the knot of nerves hidden in the silk of Hawke’s insides. When he found it, Hawke’s reaction being to twist on the bed, trying to both move for more stimulation and stop the intense sensation, Fenris moved his free hand to Hawke’s hip, firmer now, holding him in place as he added a second finger.

Twisting so the thickest part of the fingers rubbed against the tight muscle, and flicking fingertips against the knot of nerves seemed to produce the most erotic whimpers. Fenris took pleasure in hearing Hawke get louder, his hips jerking even under his guiding hand.

When he was satisfied that Hawke was sufficiently slicked in oil, and a thin sheen of sweat caught the light against the skin of his back, his hair hanging damp against his forehead, his voice sounding as if he’d been screaming battlecries all day, and that his own resolve was reaching its end, Fenris withdrew his fingers and crawled up the bed behind Hawke.

 

He could feel the heat between them which his hands met Hawke’s hips, and he breathed across the spine, watching the flesh beneath shudder in anticipation. 

Once, twice he let his length slide against the cleft of Hawke’s rear, teasing, both the warrior under him and himself. Fenris was already achingly hard, but had been entranced by Hawke’s voice, raw and honest, no fear of making a mistake or sour word, just open to let every single whisper and whimper of want and need escape.

As he pushed in, oil and flesh and tight and _heat_ , Fenris gave out a low moan of his own, matching Hawke’s throaty groan, long, drawn out, as he was filled with Fenris’s length.

He could feel Hawke’s hip bones under his grip, the clench of muscles around him intense, lust settling over his mind like a fog. He withdrew only slightly, let that delicious heat hang on to the sensitive skin of his head, before letting his hips snap forward, rocking them both on the bed.

The heady scent of sex and sweat hit his nose, and he felt himself swell to push against Hawke’s insides, blood pounding in his ears and in his member. 

He moved with rigorous speed, thrusting deep and hard, Hawke all but howling through leather and lust. The champion of Kirkwall grabbed handfuls of bedsheets, and gave a pained cry, and Fenris realised he was desperately holding back, waiting for Fenris to finish first. Plunging deep a final time, he released, a triumphant cry that signaled to Hawke to follow.

Hot seed gushed from him, and he tipped himself down to the side to avoid the white streaks, limbs and body too heavy to support any longer. Fenris managed to have presence of mind not to collapse upon the warrior, instead reaching to unbuckle the gag. He ran a finger over the teeth marks imprinted into the leather, and tossed it to the side.

“I liked that...” Hawke said, voice hoarse, “but …”

“But?” Fenris was suddenly frightened he’d pushed too far, or that Hawke had not enjoyed the experience as much he had thought.

“But next time, can we get a gag that doesn’t taste of old sweat…?”

Fenris laughed, and gave Hawke a playful bat on the head before allowing his head to rest upon the board shoulders, an arm draped over him, holding him close.

***

 

The next day, Hawke and Fenris went to the Hanged Man, where Varric was sitting, nursing what looked like a horrendous hangover. He looked to Hawke, and gave a pained sigh. 

“Well, I hope you are well pleased with your performance yesterday…”

Fenris was not quick enough to interject, and could only put his head in his hands as Hawke gave the elf a board grin and answered proudly; “Very.”


End file.
